Transference
by Andrian1
Summary: Transference is a phenomenon in psychology characterized by unconscious redirection of feelings of one person to another. In a therapy context, transference refers to redirection of a client's feelings from a significant person to a therapist. Countertran
1. Chapter 1

Her low heels echoed against the dank uneven stones, keeping time with the soft jingling of the tall man walking beside and a little in front of her. It amused her, a wry amusement, that an Azkaban guard wore a ring of keys on his belt in a Muggle fashion. Unlike her own attire, which was completely Muggle, dark gray trousers, a simple white blouse and matching gray vest, the guard wore the long robes of dark purple, marking him as a guard, as a wizard. Using one of the many keys, after making a complicated motion with his wand, he unlocked the plain wooden door, pushing it open and stepping aside. He said nothing but she could read the disapproval in his face, in all their faces, each time she came inside these walls.

She walked into the room, crossing over to the well-worn wooden table in the center of the small room, and took a seat on the rickety high-backed chair sitting at one end. The door closed behind her with an ominous click but no longer did it make her jump inside. The first time, she had almost turned around, the walls suddenly being too close, the ceiling too low. It would have meant the end of her endeavor here and she'd stifled the claustrophobia bravely. Now it was second nature.

She placed a briefcase on the table and withdrew a pad of paper and a pen, another trapping that annoyed those she spoke with in this room. The _Muggle_ pen, made it clear to them she was someone who didn't adhere to the wizard ways, that she wasn't completely one of _them_. Exactly what she wanted to project.

A file joined the pad on the table, though she didn't need it. She knew everything within it, every word, every crime, every detail, down to what the prisoner liked in his tea. What was left to learn was why she was here. The thoughts and workings of a criminal mind, a criminal that was due to for a parole hearing _if_ she deemed him sane enough to be released back into society. To many it meant incredible power to hold someone's fate in their hands, to her, it was only her job.

The door on the other side of the room opened and her back stiffened, an unconscious reaction, and her pulse began to beat a bit faster. Outwardly she appeared calm, her face almost expressionless. No one would even suspect that she was aware of the guard leading the shackled man to the chair across from her except for the flicker of her eyes, her gaze fixated on the face of the prisoner. For the next hour it would be his face that told her the truth, not his words.

She felt his eyes sweep over her, haughty, arrogant eyes, the color of a summer storm, eyes she'd seen glittering behind a stark white mask, threatening and lethal, i once /i . Now they held the hollow starkness that this abyss of darkness created, making the pupil draw into the tiniest of pinpoints at the merest light source. This room was extremely well lit in comparison to the cells, especially the solitary pit in which they placed disagreeable prisoners. It was necessary for her to see everything, the faintest variation in a man's facial expression could speak volumes.

The guard waited until the prisoner was seated and then with a flick of his wand, the shackles around the man's wrists and ankles were securely fastened to the chair. Without a word, the guard turned and left, and once again the ominous click of the lock sounded in the room, vibrating off the stones. Alone, they faced each other, a bored, supercilious look crossing his features. She met his gaze for a moment, never blinking, her own face still a cool mask of professionalism.

Picking up the pen, she broke eye contact and wrote his name across the top of the page. "Mr. Malfoy, I am Her..."

"Granger," he interrupted smoothly, a hoarse quality to his tone. Another factor of life within Azkaban, the dankness permeated into the lungs and throat. For weeks, often months of disuse of the vocal chords. "I know who you are and why you are here." A slow, lazy smile curved his lips, turning into a sneer.

"I am Hermione Granger," she continued, ignoring the interruption. "You may address me as Ms. Granger during our sessions. Since my reputation precedes me, I will dispense with the usual introduction of why I am here. However, if you have any questions, please ask and do not assume the answer."

Lucius made a motion as if to settle more comfortably in the chair and she heard the clink of the chains. Their eyes met again and she saw defiance flash in his before it was quickly veiled. "I suppose it would not help my cause if I were to address you as..." He smirked, letting the moment of silence speak, "your married name. You are married, are you not?"

Hermione's mouth quirked, a fleeting, sardonic half- smile that mirrored his for the merest second. "We are not here to discuss my life, Mr. Malfoy. It is hardly worth the valuable minutes you are afforded to dwell on such matters that do not concern you. You may address me as Ms. Granger."

He made a noise, perhaps it was meant to be a chuckle, but it sounded harsh, without emotion. "Ah, forgive me. You _were_ married. Like myself, you are now a widower. I would offer my condolences however they would be, insincere."

She said nothing, making a notation on the paper before looking back over at him, laying the pen down. "I will ask you a series of questions, Mr. Malfoy. Please answer them without these little interruptions. It will make both our jobs easier. I believe you would like to be eligible for parole. If I am wrong, tell me now and I will say goodbye and you will not have to suffer through this."

His eyes glittered, icy cold flints of steel, and for a moment she was transported back eleven years, into a dark musty room in the bowels of the Ministry. As before, a shadowed veil fell over them and Lucius nodded, offering her a pleasant smile. "Ask your questions, _Ms. Granger._"

Hermione knew they understood each other; he would suffer her presence, hating every moment of this, with the hope that every prisoner within these walls had, no matter how proud or defiant they were: that someday they would walk away, into the small boat that would take them back to the real world. And she would do her job, the job she had fought the Ministry every step to obtain, to make them see that there was a real need for her expertise with so many causalities left behind after the war. The Healers patched up the broken bones and mended the wounds, but they only put sugar coating on the deeper wounds, those that left behind shattered minds of night terrors and thoughts of death.

She asked the standard questions, surface questions to garner the basic information, a form she'd conformed from the Muggle university she'd attended where she earned the degree that would have secured her a position in any hospital in the UK. Instead, she took the useless piece of paper back to the world she truly belonged in and convinced them that she was needed.

"Do you sleep well?"

Lucius looked mildly amused. He'd answered the questions about his general health and well-being in a monotone, bored voice but now there was an inflection in his tone. "I sleep as anyone would."

"Are you disturbed by dreams?"

"We all dream, do we not? I daresay my dreams are no different than anyone else in this place." He smiled nonchalantly. "Aren't you supposed to to ask me if I have nightmares, visions of the atrocities I committed, dreams of remorse or repentance?" Hermione said nothing, carefully watching him without sign of curiosity. "The only dreams I have that are disturbing are those that include the lack of personal hygiene that is afforded here."

"Is it your own poor hygiene or that of others that bother you, Mr. Malfoy?"

He looked at her as if she were a bothersome gnat and then laughed, a dry humorless sound. "Mine. I could care less what others smell like, even if they are as repugnant as the dirt they wallow in. The stench of one's body is most offensive." His smile was one that would send fear into the person it was directed at. "But you are familiar with such, aren't you?"

"I judge no one by the way they look or smell," she said simply, crossing her legs and settling back in the chair, the notepad in her lap. _Nor by their heritage_. She held his gaze and asked the next question. "How would you describe your sexual satisfaction at this time; adequate, frustrating, not applicable?"

The amusement on his features was genuine. "It amazes me at the idiocy of this questioning, Gr..Ms. Granger. Of course my sexual satisfaction is less than adequate, mostly frustrating and definitely not applicable. Please allow me to dissuade you of the notion that the prisoners are allowed to bugger each other in the showers. Unless of course, it is the only way you can get your jollies, then by all means continue with those little fantasies."

"I have no assumptions regarding your sexual activity, Mr. Malfoy. It is a standard question. A sexually frustrated person may act out, trying to diffuse the frustration."

Lucius sneered. "My sexual activity consists of wanking off at night from time to time. It's rather boring but allows for release. Satisfied?"

"Completely," she replied calmly, making another note on the pad. "How would you describe..."

"I believe it's my turn to ask a question," he interrupted, smirking. "How would _you_ describe your sexual satisfaction at this time, Ms. Granger? Has the loss of your husband forced you to resort to pleasuring yourself by your own hand or do you pick up men at bars, perhaps pay a stranger on the street to meet your needs?"

"Mr. Malfoy. You may ask questions only regarding something pertaining to this interview."

"Oh, but it does. I find myself strangely, morbidly curious to what a homely little Mud..Muggleborn, who pretends to be a cool, self- important professional, does to satisfy herself. In fact, I may not be able to answer any more of your questions until I have the answer." He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

"I am not here to discuss myself, Mr. Malfoy," she said coolly. "I am not the one seeking parole."

"You get off on this, don't you? It's what turns you on, having the upper hand over those who are superior to you. Dangling the promise of parole under my nose, when in fact, you have no intention to give a good report to the Ministry even if I do jump through your hoops," he said superciliously.

Hermione met his eyes, hers expressionless. "I assure you that my interviews are completely neutral. It is your behavior and answers that will determine the outcome."

"Answer me, _Hermione_. Write it down as a therapeutic reason. As a widower, I am seeking solace to know that I have options _when_ I am released. Tell me what you do to satisfy the lust that burns in your veins. Unless you have grown so cold and dissatisfied with base needs that you deny them. Do you have a lover?"

She closed the notebook and folded her hands on top of the table. "No."

A triumphant glimmer flashed in his eyes. "Thank you. That wasn't so hard. Now the rest."

"I satisfy my urges by my own hand when the need arises."

Lucius leaned forward as much as his bonds would allow. "Now, doesn't that make you feel better?" he asked mockingly.

"I never felt poorly," she responded. "We have five minutes left today. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, if you are released, what is the first thing you want to do?"

Chuckling, Lucius looked deeply into her eyes for several long seconds. "Take a bath," he said very slowly and deliberately as if speaking to a child.

Hermione uncrossed her legs and picked up the notebook, putting it into her briefcase as the door behind Lucius opened. "We will continue this tomorrow, Mr. Malfoy," she said, standing.

The guard released Lucius from the chair and helped him to stand, the act making the taller, blond wizard snarl in disgust. Regaining his composure, he looked back over at Hermione. "Next time, bring cigarettes. I find a woman that smokes...progressive." His eyes flickered down to her left hand and he smiled knowingly at the faint yellow stains of her index finger. A glitter of satisfaction reflected in his eyes when he saw a brief unnerved look on her face before he turned away at the urging of the guard.

The only light in the small room was the unnatural glare coming from the screen. Words flashed across in quick session, her fingers tapping without stopping on the keys. The tip of a cigarette flared and she paused, flicking the ash into an overrunning ashtray. Blowing out the smoke, Hermione leaned back in the swivel chair, reading over the notes she'd transferred to the computer. From less than a page on paper, she had entered enough information on Malfoy to fill three pages on the word processing program.

She put the cigarette out, staring down at the yellowish stain on her nail, knowing why it had bothered her that Malfoy was aware that she smoked. It was a nasty habit, one she'd railed at her husband about over the years, going to extreme measures to point out to him that he was slowly killing himself by poisoning his lungs. How she wished that he would have died from lung disease many years down the road instead of...

The first cigarette she'd smoked was the night of his death, the pack of cigarettes lying on the nightstand was a glaring reminder that he should be there, in bed, with her, lighting one up after they'd made love, laughing at her chiding and kissing her nose, promising that someday he'd give them up just for her. She'd choked through that first one, weeping until she thought her heart would break, the smell, the taste reminding her of him. It grew eerily easy to pick up a cigarette every time she thought of him, which was each second of the day those first few terrible days, when she finally had to accept the fact he was dead.

Unconsciously, she lit another cigarette and turned off the computer.

Thanks to lorenasnape for beta services and grrarrg0908 for input


	2. Countertransference

_Countertransference is a term in __psychotherapy__, denoting a condition where the therapist, as a result of the therapy sessions, begins to transfer the therapist's own __repressed feelings__ to the patient. It is also defined as the entire body of feelings that the therapist has toward the patient._

Routinely the guard brought him in, his wand drawn ready to attach the shackles to the chair until Hermione waved him away. "There will be no need of that today," she said, meeting the guard's unapproving stare. It was an old ploy, to make the prisoner more comfortable, to offer trust. There were those she'd interviewed who she hadn't dared to suggest they remain unbound. The manacles fell away from Malfoy's wrists, those on his ankles remained. Once he was settled, the guard left as silently as he'd come, the door making the familiar ominous click when it shut behind him.

Taking out a pack of cigarettes, she tapped one out and pushed the rest of the pack to the middle of the table. Using a Muggle lighter she lit it, taking a deep drag of it then setting it on the tin ashtray provided, the thin curling smoke breaking the monotony of the light in the room. Lucius looked pleased with himself that she had acquiesced to his request that she bring the cigarettes and was bold enough to smoke one in front of him.

"How are you doing today, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Splendidly," he drawled, taking advantage of his freed hands to rest them on the table. "I am a man of leisure with servants to bring me my meals. How few can boast of that?"

Her lips twitched. How the mighty have fallen, yet there was truth in what he said. Could he even function on the outside? There would be no 'servants' to wait on him, no magic afforded to him for a period. Hermione mentally shook off her line of thought. It wasn't her concern. "Do you have any questions pertaining to yesterday's conversation?"

He chuckled softly. "No. The _interrogation_ was crystal clear and I am ready for it to continue."

"It is simple procedure, not an interrogation, Mr. Malfoy. A psychological profile is necessary for any prisoner that is considered for release..."

"Ah, yes. Psychology. Such a noble profession, listening to the problems of the unfortunate, offering them false advice and hope. Pretending to be clever when in reality, it is the one with the problems that does the work, baring their deepest darkest secrets, fantasies, all the things that would send fear into the feeble minds of men that deny that they too have desires that are too horrible to admit."

A slow sinister smile spread on his face. "It is a pity you couldn't save your own husband from the demons in his mind."

Hermione's face was a carefully schooled mask of indifference. "What are some of those deepest darkest secrets you wish to hide, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Did you miss the signs, therapist Granger? Perhaps when your lover slept fitfully, tossing and turning, begging in his sleep," he continued in a silky voice. "Did you reason with yourself that he was only out late with the boys, having a few drinks, not drinking to forget what happened to him?" Lucius leaned forward, his eyes alight with a hungry look. "Tell me, did they let you see him after it happened? I've heard that the Muggle way of suicide is...very gruesome."

"Tell me about your dreams, Mr. Malfoy," she said in a flat tone.

"Tit for tat, Hermione," Lucius purred, thoroughly enjoying himself now. "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine. Do you dream of him, crying out for you or worse, crying out for another and knowing you are unable to save him."

The pen slipped from her fingers, falling to the stone floor with an ominous clatter. She bent to retrieve it, using the few moments to take a steadying breath. Why was he getting to her? Those before him had railed at her, taunted her about her heritage, made lewd suggestive comments of how they would like to torture her, to watch her dirty blood flow from her lifeless body. She knew the answer and shoved it to the back of her mind, trying to refuse the deep begging need in her to ask him, to plead with him to tell her what he knew about _it_.

"It doesn't work that way, Mr. Malfoy. I ask the questions, you may either answer or choose to ignore them."

"Surely it is worth hearing about something dark and sinister that I have done or wish I had to answer my simple question, Ms. Granger." The cat-like smile returned. "Do you dream of him?"

Hermione's jaw clenched and she stared coldly at him for a long moment. "Yes, of course I do. Anyone would."

A calmness washed over his face. "Thank you. That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Your turn, Lucius." She didn't notice her slip until it was too late and covered by turning a page in the notebook. "Regal me with a tale of your darkest secrets."

He chuckled, a very amused expression on his face. "I could almost take you seriously and assume you are a naive, foolish young woman, but I know that you were at least, at one time, a very smart and clever witch, especially for a Muggleborn." Reposing his position in the chair, he gave the appearance of one sitting down to tea with one of the royal family. "My secrets will go with me to the grave, be it in here or out in the free world. However, I do owe you and I repay my debts in full."

Lucius lifted his chin, looking very regal and haughty, and for a moment, Hermione glimpsed the man he once was before a decade of living in this hellhole had taken away a portion of his health. Apparently it hadn't dampened his spirit. "_When_ I get out of here, I will tell you what happened to your husband," he said smoothly, his eyes glittering with an inner fire.

Hermione met his gaze unflinching. "_If_ you get out of here, Mr. Malfoy, we will no longer have contact unless the court deems it so," she replied calmly. "I dare say that the story would be most inventive as you were not involved since you were securely locked up at the time."

Smirking, Lucius nodded at the cigarette pack. She tapped out one and lit it, passing it across to him. He took it gingerly, careful not to touch her, and brought it to his lips, taking a deep drag. "My 'friends' were most eager to fill me in on all the happenings I missed," he said, a hint of cynicism in his voice, smoke curling from his nostrils.

_Friends_. Murderers, Death Eaters, defilers...

"How did it make you feel when these _friends_ left you to rot in here?"

The smirk slowly turned into a sneer and he crushed the cigarette on the tabletop. "It made me feel...ecstatic." The cynicism was definitely there now, coating the words in heavy sarcasm. A mere flicker of empathy filled her for a moment. She was well aware of 'why' the Death Eaters hadn't released Lucius with the others during the summer of 1997. They never planned to set him free, they had planned to kill him for Draco's betrayal.

It was after the death of Narcissa that Draco had finally turned away from following Voldemort, believing in Dumbledore's promise to him, that the Order could protect him and his family. That promise was fulfilled when the conspiracy reached their ears through the Order's own spy network, which was more securely in place than anyone knew save except for Dumbledore. To thwart the breakout completely would put the Order's inside source in jeopardy but they could save Lucius.

One of the Phoenix members inside Azkaban set Malfoy up, staging a fake incident, claiming that Lucius had struck him during a normal bedtime check thus earning Lucius a week in solitaire. When the Death Eaters arrived they couldn't locate Malfoy quickly and by the time they learned of his whereabouts were in no position to seek him out for the Aurors had been alerted and were entering the prison. Hermione knew that Lucius would never learn the truth that at his son's request, Draco's bravery, his own life had been spared because Draco could never tell his father; he had fallen during the last days of the war.

"Wasn't it better to spend the time in here than to be part of a losing side?" she asked simply, not to provoke but she needed to know.

Lucius raised a haughty eyebrow and chuckled. "Perhaps they lost because they left one of their most valuable allies behind." He paused, letting the comment pregnant, then he shrugged ever so slightly. "Staying in this place did not afford a nice holiday, Miss Granger, however in retrospect I will accept that piece of fate did seem to work in my favor. I am not a foolish man. Since circumstances played out as they did, then I am grateful that they did not find me that day. Is that not the proper response?"

His smile was too pleasant and she carefully noted the tension that appeared around his eyes. No doubt he thought that had he been reunited with the Death Eaters he alone could have helped change the course of events. Such were the grandeur ideas of the Narcisstic.

"It is your response. Do with as you will," she said calmly. "Do you have a desire to inform your former colleagues of your views now that you've had a considerable time to think about everything?"

"You are asking whether I will seek out those who abandoned me and extract revenge," he replied, the amusement back in his eyes. "In case you are hard of hearing, let me reiterate. I am not a foolish man. They have garnered their punishment, who am I to mete out further?"

"Let me offer you a hypothetical scenario, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione said, picking up the almost burned up cigarette and flicking the long ash from it. "You run into a comrade in a deserted, dark place. He boasts of his devotion, his deeds, in the final days of the war, and comments on your cowardness, that you were safely ensconced behind prison walls instead of serving the one you pledge alliance to. There is no one around, no one would ever know. What would your reaction be?"

"I believe that is cohersion, Miss Granger," he drawled, the merest hint of calculation in his eyes. "It does intrigue me however. Could it be that this hypothetical scenario is one that you've played out, the person you have met in this dark, deserted place, one of those that tortured your husband?" Lucius sat up straighter, reaching across the table for the cigarette pack and tapping out one, holding it for a moment before crumbling it into a pile of tobacco and paper. "You would like that, wouldn't you? To shred this hypothetical person, to...kill them."

He leaned back once more, looking very smug. "Forgive me, but I suspect your ability to murder a person would be pathetic at best."

"Would you murder the person in question, hypothetically of course?" she countered, reaching for the cigarette pack now and lighting another.

"No. Even in your hypothetical world I would not allow my regained freedom to be jeopardize over such triviality as displaced loyalty."

_Liar_. The unbiddened word unsettled her, not sure who it was meant for. Twice now he'd gotten to her and she wouldn't let it happen again.

"Are you just saying that to appease me?" she asked quickly.

Lucius leaned back in the chair, placing the tips of his fingers together, smiling. "What do you think? After all, you are the professional."

Hermione returned the dry, sarcastic smile. "I think you are very smooth, Mr. Malfoy, and will play the part well to gain what you desire."

"Wouldn't you? Forgive me again, Miss Granger," he said, his tone dripping in sarcasm, "but I hardly think you are in the position to cast judgment on hypothetical matters when in fact you would act upon them yourself."

"Are you attempting to analyze me, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked with a hint of amusement.

Lucius stared at her, almost daring her to look away. "You're too open, too honest. Anyone could read your thoughts and I'm not speaking of Legilems. The disassociated aura you try to present is too false, too forced." He smiled lazily. "Of course, I'm sure most of the pathetic fools that seek out your help are too far wrapped up in their own menial problems to notice."

"Fascinating as your theory is, we are wasting the valuable minutes afforded to you," she responded, again feeling that inkling of being caught off guard. "How would you feel if you are allowed release but not allowed to have possession of a wand until you have proven that you can settle in society?"

"To live as a Muggle or Squib, how very ...quaint. I suppose the powers that be would find that very amusing," he said the cynicism in his voice once more. "A wizard without a wand is still a wizard and I would find it...tolerable until my wand is returned to me."

_No doubt you would procure one in secret anyway_. Hermione scolded herself for her quick assumptions, something that shouldn't have happened. She had to remain neutral.

"How will you support yourself if you are released? I'm sure your solicitor has informed you that your gold barely covered the reimbursement the Ministry enacted on all those incarcerated with ties to Voldemort for damages to the community. You will return to a Manor bereft of staff and funds."

A fleeting look of disgust flickered across his face. "Yes, the wonderful court appointed solicitor took great glee informing of the nature of my estate," he said dryly. "Regardless of popular opinion, I am capable of taking care of myself in all areas, financial and otherwise."

The skepticism that would have risen at one time wasn't there. She believed he was very capable and no doubt had resources the Ministry had never found; it would have been what she'd had done, hide away a stash of monies and valuables if faced with the possibility of losing everything. It was his ability to adjust to dealing with 'less desirables' that would be his challenge.

Not that she cared. If he were released, their paths would never cross again.

Hermione made a note on the pad and closed it, sliding it into her briefcase. "Unless you have anything to add, Mr. Malfoy, I believe our interview is at an end."

Lucius retrieved another cigarette from the pack, his gaze very calculating and she knew that he was wondering what her report to the board would be, yet she also knew that his pride wouldn't allow him to ask outright. He leaned across the table to allow her to light the cigarette as before, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, a careless gesture perhaps.

"I have nothing further to add, _Miss Granger_," he said with a sly smile, settling back into his seat and taking a drag of the cigarette.

"Then I will say goodbye," she said, picking up the briefcase and standing. A small shiver ran down her spine as she met his eyes, the gray orbs veiled yet there was something within that she quickly dismissed as a play of her imagination. For some reason, again, he'd had unnerved her.

Crookshanks purred contentedly beside Hermione, enjoying the stroking that he always received when his mistress was deep in thought. For over an hour Hermione sat on the small sofa, her thoughts on the conversation with Lucius. It was easy to not think about the incident, what her husband had done, most times. She'd isolated herself from his family, by choice and by circumstances. They'd been supportive, assuring her that she was still part of the family, but she couldn't handle the sympathetic looks or gestures or the underlying guilt that somehow she should have known, should have stopped him. It was what she did wasn't it?

_It is a pity you couldn't save your own husband from the demons in his mind_.

How could she have missed the signs that he'd been ready to end his life? She knew he'd shut down about whatever had happened to him and foolishly she thought he was handling it...The old defenses welled within her; she couldn't think about it, _wouldn't_ think about it. It was over, done, and nothing would bring him back, nothing.

Getting up, she went over to the small desk, pulling out quill, parchment and ink. The board wouldn't accept her notes printed from the computer. Casting a spell, the quill began to write as she spoke.

"Summary: The prisoner, Lucius Abraxon Malfoy, shows signs of Narcissism, is a very accomplished and clever liar, and has no remorse for his participation in his activities for the deceased Lord Voldemort. His ability to adjust into a world where there is no despot to provide rhetoric of the purity of the Wizarding community will be sorely tested and will need to be acclimatized.

It is in my professional opinion in regards to the parole of Mr. Malfoy that he should be..."


	3. Denial

Denial**-** is a psychological defense mechanism in which a person faced with a fact that is uncomfortable or painful to accept rejects it instead, insisting that it is not true despite what may be overwhelming evidence. The subject may deny the reality of the unpleasant fact altogether (simple denial), admit the fact but deny its seriousness (minimisation) or admit both the fact and seriousness but deny responsibility (transference).

It took a great deal of restraint to keep from rubbing her temples when the throbbing began, the urge to point out to the witch sitting across from her that her relationships with men were toxic and that maybe she should just give up on them entirely and find a decent witch to settle down with or an ogre, since the blokes she usually wound up with were on the same level. In the same breath she would have told her, 'you are a witch; hex the bastard's bits off the next time he uses you for a punching bag', but that wasn't the way it worked. The client had to come to the point they understood what was wrong and have the desire to work on the issues. Doris sighed and dabbed her eyes with a hankie, looking at Hermione much the way Crookshanks did when he was wanted his tin of food.

"Why are you blaming yourself for last night?" Hermione asked in a neutral tone. "You came home from work and because you opted to bring food instead of cooking you deserved a beating?"

The witch blushed furiously and nodded. "Yes,well, no, I mean…I'm supposed to say I don't deserve a beating. Roger was just tired and frustrated. You know how men are when they get their bits in a wad. I knew he didn't like me to bring things in..." Her words trailed off and she started twisting her hands.

"Why do you place the responsibility of Roger's dissatisfaction of life on you, Doris? Correct me if I'm wrong, but he is an adult. It's not your job to ensure his happiness." Hermione closed her pad, the hour was up. She didn't usually keep tabs of the time like she once did when she'd first started interning but soon learned that you could spend the entire day with one client going around and around in circles. "The only person whose happiness you should worry about is your own."

Doris sighed again and looked down at her hands. "But he makes me happy, really. When he holds me and tells me he's sorry, I know he is. If he could just find a job he likes and if ..."

Hermione tuned her out. She'd heard the 'ifs' often enough to recite them by heart. "Our time is up," she said after the witch's diatribe. "Doris, please attempt to think about what we've said, that you need to focus on yourself and not Roger. He is his own person and needs to accept you are your own person also." She knew it was falling on deaf ears. "And please, take care of yourself." One day she fully expected to find Doris in St. Mungo's from Roger's beatings or worse, in the morgue. Hermione had already informed Kingsley about the domestic abuse, which most Aurors would have looked at her in bewilderment. It was not common to report such things in the Wizarding world; witches could take care of themselves supposedly.

Doris gave Hermione an overly bright smile as she left, and Hermione could tell the witch was no closer to being convinced that Roger was bad for her than the last several visits.

Lighting a cigarette, Hermione began to go through the stacks of letters stacked neatly in the utmost tier of the correspondence box, most in the lavender colored envelopes the Ministry used. There were three more Death Eaters whose solicitors were pushing for parole or dismissal of charges. The political pressure behind this was strong, the new Minister winning his position by promising a new era of forgiveness and restoration. It appeared that the war had been quickly forgotten now that peace was at hand.

Hermione raised her eyebrow slightly at the elegant script on the last envelope; a rich white paper that one would see in a formal invitation and assumed it was to some sort of charity event. Slitting it open, she pulled out the quality paper, faded a bit around the edges. Her eyes widened when she saw the name at the bottom of the missive,

_Dear Ms Granger,_

_I would like to extend an invitation to dinner at your earliest convenience to express my gratitude in your participation in procuring my release. _

_Sincerely,_

_L.A. Malfoy_

A furrow appeared between her brows and she snorted softly, ready to toss the letter into the wastebasket. Pausing, she put it in the drawer, just in case. What was Lucius up to? Was he inviting her to dinner to show her, the parole board, that he had changed? 'See I can eat with a Mudblood and not vomit.'

Dismissing the idea, she gathered the folders to take home with her and left the office.

Three more invitations arrived from Lucius over the next two weeks, each short, in almost the same words and she added then to the drawer with no intention of ever replying. He'd get the message soon enough that there would be no interaction between them. Unfortunately that notion was dissuaded that afternoon when she received the fourth invitation from Lucius in an envelope from her adviser, Healer Clark who headed the fourth floor at St. Mungo's.

Hermione's mouth dropped open when she read the letter. Healer Clark made it very clear that she ishould/i make the effort to meet with Malfoy, pointing out that if Malfoy was wanting to try to get to know Muggles and Muggle society that she would be the appropriate choice to help him deal with any issues or questions he might have. Immediately she wrote a long letter in retaliation, citing the code of ethics that prevented therapists from interacting with their clients, even previous clients, and why she couldn't in good conscious meet with Malfoy.

She wasn't surprised when the return letter came from Clark with the not so subtle insinuations that her 'employment' with the department of Ministry was still under evaluation of its validity and reminding her that this was not the Muggle world and that Muggle laws, ethics, did not apply and that if ethics were an issue, why did it not apply to Ginerva Weasley Potter, whom was a patient of Hermione's for six months and to everyone's knowledge, still a friend seen outside the office.

_Damn_

How could she explain that the sessions with Ginny were for herself as well as her friend, who was having bouts of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome that were exasperated after her brother's suicide.Resigned to the task, Hermione penned a note to Lucius, agreeing to meet him for dinner, at _her_ chosen location.

She was on her second glass of wine when she saw him at the door of the establishment. It shouldn't have, but it amused her to watch Lucius enter the restaurant, a cool confident expression on his face. She was minutely impressed that his attire worked, old fashioned tailored trousers, shirt and vest fit nicely into Muggle society, but in today's society he could have worn his robes and not garnered too many odd stares. Hermione didn't miss the slight relief in his face when he was able to excuse himself from the hostess when he spotted her and made his way over to the table.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said in greeting, not bothering to hide the wry smirk on her face. "I see you found your way."

Lucius took the chair opposite her, raising a frosty eyebrow in her direction a moment before his countenance settled into one of polite humor. "Well done, Ms Granger. I don't believe you could have chosen a place further from my estate without leaving London," he said smoothly.

"Oh, I'm sure I could have, however I chose this place because it is a favorite of mine. I hope you like Chinese." Her eyes danced with a mischievous glint and she didn't care if he knew she _had_ chosen the restaurant because of its distance. He would have been forced to find his way here through Muggle transport unless he'd procured an illegal wand and Apparated to a nearby alley as she had done. Actually, she had hoped he wouldn't show. Nothing could come of this. She knew what he wanted and she was determined to dismiss his offer of telling her what happened to her husband. As much as she wanted to know, it was better she didn't. "Did you have any trouble in transportation?"

"Not at all nor do I foresee any in leaving here, providing a vagrant doesn't decide they need a broom to sweep the dust from the alley," he said smugly.

Hermione raised her glass slightly to him, she'd forgotten about brooms having an intense dislike for them and never using them herself, especially since...

Downing the rest of the her wine, she reached for the half empty bottle and refilled her glass. The waiter stopped at the table for their order. Shooting Lucius a conspiratorial look, Hermione ordered for both of them, a wide variety of dishes. If he truly was interested in learning more about Muggle things, including what Chinese fare he liked, then she would provide him the opportunity. She was not deluding herself; he was not here to eat although she thought he probably could stand a good meal. His cheeks were still sunken in, a hungry look lingered in his eyes and she couldn't help but remember Sirius, how starved he always seemed after the years of deprivation in Azkaban.

Her throaty chuckle was muffled when she took a sip of wine causing him to slightly raise his eyebrows. "Cheers," she murmured, wryly amused at her thoughts. How could she even compare Harry's dead godfather to this man?

"It seems you have found something amusing," he remarked, pouring himself a glass of wine from the new bottle a waitress brought over. "Do share."

Hermione toyed with her glass, shaking her head. "I am trying to discern what you are playing at, Mr. Malfoy."

"I am simply attempting to learn how the 'other' half lives," he said smoothly, his smile sardonic. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What I wanted? I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you are the furthest thing from my mind. After our last 'visit' I crossed your name off my to-do list forever."

Lucius leaned back in the chair, amusement clearly etched in his face. "Pity. I have thought of you often these last weeks," he remarked, his lips curving more at her attempt not to look surprised. The waitress brought the food, inquiring if they needed anything else. Hermione shook her head before Lucius had a chance to respond, her mouth pursing. The bastard had caught her off guard again and she despised him for it.

"Before you tuck in, I'm going to lay some ground rules for this meal. One, we will only talk about the weather, the food or the state of the current economy. Two, there will be no mention of our personal lives, present or past tense, nor will we speak of our world here. Clear?" She saw the glint in his eyes, the brief flare of ire perhaps, yet there was something else there also, and she blamed the wine for reading too much into it, for she could have sworn that it was a look of admiration.

Lucius inclined his head, smirking slightly. "Agreed. While we _dine_ there will be only light, inane conversation." He picked up his silverware and began to choose from the various dishes offered.

They ate in silence, punctuated by his inquiries to the food offered and as agreed, the weather. Hermione barely touched the food, opting to nurse another glass of wine instead becoming lulled into a false hope that he would eat and go. His gaze bothered her, each time she looked over at him she caught him studying her, reminding her of an animal stalking its prey. Again, she shook off the notion, secure in the fact that he would never act in this setting.

Laying his silverware down, his plate clean, Lucius leaned back in his chair and reached into his vest pocket. For a brief moment she tensed, half expecting him to draw a wand, feeling foolish when he withdrew a cigar.

"There's a no smoking policy here."

"Really?" he drawled, a slow lazy smirk curving his lips, putting the cigar back into his pocket. "And you are the type not to break the rules? I believe when you agreed to this dinner that you broke several of your code of ethics, which I find highly intriguing. Why did you agree, Hermione?"

It irked her to hear her name on his lips for some reason. "You were very persuasive. I could hardly keep turning you down, could I, _Lucius_?" she returned, letting his name slide off her tongue in a mocking manner.

Lucius' laughter rang out, causing several at a near by table to look over at them. "You are a poor liar, my dear. My attempts would hardly constitute persuasion." His eyes glittered at her, a veiled cunning reflecting in the stormy gray. "Why did you come?"

"I believe we agreed to keep personal inquiries..."

"Ah, yes. But as you can see, we are done with our repast and I agreed only to keep the conversation boring while we ate," he interrupted smoothly, leaning forward a little. His steel grey eyes glittered, calculation hidden within. "I want to know why you came."

Hermione pursed her lips, the repeated question deserved to be denied and she fiddled with the fortune cookie that was placed by her plate. "Morbid curiosity," she said finally, her tone flat. "I wanted to know why in Merlin's name you would seek me out given your stance on people with my heritage."

He looked highly amused. "I believe I owe you something, and I repay my debts in full. Surely you haven't forgotten?"

"You don't owe me anything," she said flatly, the cookie breaking open in her hand. "I was only doing my job..."

"Yet you came tonight," he said silkily. His gray eyes pierced hers. "You came because you wanted to know."

She shook her head, smiling ruefully. "No, I really don't, Malfoy. Hate to disappoint you, but I prefer to forget, not try to relive a painful part of my life. Also, I believe you made sure I had no choice but to join you tonight. I see you haven't lost your touch in influencing those in the Ministry."

"You want to know who did it, who needs to be punished," he continued in a soft, almost seductive voice, acknowledging her last with only a devious glint in his eyes that was quickly veiled. "It's why you do your job, Hermione, why you seek out those in that miserable prison, to find the ones that created so much distress in your husband's mind that he chose to end his life rather than to deal with what they'd done. That is why you are here, because I have the answers you seek."

Staring at him for a long moment, Hermione looked down at the broken cookie and picked up the sliver of paper from inside, opening it. _A wise man does not look to the past to find the future._

She laughed dryly. "There is your answer, Mr. Malfoy," she said, handing him the fortune. "Let the past stay buried."

"Just like your husband?"

Taking her napkin from her lap she laid it on the plate. "Thank you for your concern, but it's neither warranted nor wanted," she said, getting up. He rose from his seat and she held up her hand. "Stay. Finish the wine." Hermione picked up her purse, rummaging in it and put some bills on the table. "Good night, Lucius, and I trust our paths will not cross again."

Lucius stepped in front of her. "I will walk you out," he said in a quiet commanding tone, taking her arm.

It was only the fact that she didn't want to make a scene that she acquiesced, seething inwardly at the strong grip of his hand. Once outside, she jerked her arm away, glaring at him. "I don't know whether to be impressed that you actually could bring yourself to touch me or angry that you dared do so," she said sarcastically, wanting to be away from here, to be alone so she could dissuade the notion that she _did _want to know...

His rich baritone laughter rang in the night air. "I believe that you are the prejudice one here, Miss Granger," he remarked, still chuckling, looking far too amused for Hermione's liking. "Did you not believe me when I said I'd seen the errors of my ways?"

"Frankly, no," she said unapologetically.

"That, my dear, is the first honest answer you have given me tonight," he remarked, his voice taking on a rich velvet quality. He lifted his hand and touched her hair, laughing again when she jerked her head back. "See. I don't recoil from touching someone of, ah, your background." He shook his head, pulling a cigar from his vest pocket. "Would you be so kind?"

Flushing, Hermione's eyes narrowed but she pulled her lighter from her pocket and offered it to him. "Keep it. I'm sure it will be useful to you," she said coolly. "Again, good night." Turning on her heel she started down the sidewalk, ready to Apparate back to her flat when she was well away from Muggle eyes.

"Hermione."

Her steps slowed, and she warred with herself to continue, not to turn back. Curiosity was a wicked master. Stopping, she slowly turned and looked back at him.

"When you are ready, you will come to me," he said softly, his lips curling in a knowing smile.

_The night sky sparkled with thousands of stars, diamonds against a velvet backdrop. Cold clear air made her nostrils sting and carried her shrieks of laughter over the still landscape far below. His arm tightened around her waist, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured all the naughty things he planned on doing to her once they arrived home, making her clothes far too warm and restrictive and wanting nothing more than to turn around to kiss his jaw. Fear of flying kept her from moving though his skill and strong arm was secure. Her laughter echoed in the night as he nuzzled her neck, removing his hand from the broom. _

_  
"Don't, we'll fall," she chided breathlessly._

_  
"Never. I'll never let go of you, love," he said, a hint of laughter behind the husky voice._

_  
"I'm going to hold you to that," she said, leaning back more, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady against her back. His lips on her neck sent fire licking through her and she dared to let go of the broom to reach back, to touch his face. Fear flooded through her when her hand met empty air and she turned, the broom dipping precariously. She was alone. The stars went out, leaving her shrouded in darkness and in the faint light from the sliver of moon she saw him falling fast to the earth below._

_  
"No!" _

_  
Taking firm hold of the broom, she pointed it down, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She couldn't reach him in time. In slow motion she watched him hit the ground, his limbs twisted unnaturally, his head at an odd angle._

_  
"No!"..._

Her cry woke her, her heart beating so fast that it made her chest ache. It had been a long time since she'd dream of him. Crookshanks yellow eyes glowed like pinpoints in the chair across from the couch. Apparently she'd woken him also.

Getting up, she went into the kitchen to heat the kettle, her body trembled with the emotions welling up in her. She hadn't dreamed of him in over a year, but the pain was still fresh, piercing through her. The whistling kettle made her jump and with shaky hands she poured a mug full of water, adding a tea bag.

He'd left her, left her without even a goodbye, had selfishly decided she was better off without him. With a cry of bitter rage borne of despair and loss, Hermione threw the mug with all her strength, hot tea splattering against the plaster, the solid mug bouncing unscathed off it and hitting the floor with the same kind of resilience. Sobbing uncontrollably she sank to the floor, his name a mournful wail on her lips. "You did let me go! You left me!"

Covering her face with her hands, she rocked back and forth, letting the pain pour forth, something she hadn't done since those first horrible days. All because Malfoy had brought it to the surface, tempting her with the knowledge she did want, retribution to those that tormented her husband. "Damn you," she cried, unsure if she were cursing Lucius or her husband.


End file.
